


A Whisper

by Meowbowwow



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Fluffy, Hand Jobs, M/M, Q in a beard, i love fluffy 00Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q in a beard. Bond and Q in love. Handjobs and fluff. That's all this is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whisper

There is a smirk that travels from the corners of Bond's mouth, stretching up in synchronicity to the slight wrinkle on his nose and then, there is that remarkably strong jaw going lax, falling down, a smirk turned to a perfect O as Q finds it hard to hide the twinkle behind his glasses. He could trace that gaping expressing with the tip of his tongue and leave it aching between them, hanging in the biting air, walking away, beaming and shuddering equally. But he doesn't. It's been a month since they met, and god he missed his arrogant lover of a man, this insufferable idiot. Although, even in his half lust and semi sentimental state, he does notice that Bond has seen _it_. Of course he has, it's hard to ignore when _it_ is all over his face. And he knows that he liked what he saw because of the unconscious way his left hand balled inside his pocket and there was a slight shift in the fabric at the front of his trousers, barely noticeable. But the most conspicuous change was, perhaps, that he let M's taunt slide, smiling that trademark 007 smile with a bit of teeth but biting down on the retort. Q knows he's a goner when Bond almost strains his neck, trying not to look at him as he walks past the door Q is leaning against and seems to hit him with a sort of raw Bond heat on an absurdly cold day as he whispers " _Qhuinn_ " under his breath, loud enough for him to hear and gulp audibly.

 

He resolutely ignores Q branch all through the 3 hours they have left in the day and stays for a lot more, holed in Moneypenny's office. When he comes out, Moneypenny is slightly drunk and the veins in Bond's temple are twitching, his jaw clenching and unclenching not out of irritation but restraint. Q has left for home, a sideways glance towards the lack of a typical threadbare jumper in the general direction of Q's cabin reveals. Horrendous jumpers. Absolutely pathetic. If it were for James, he would never let Q wear them. Well, if it were for James, he wouldn't let Q wear anything. _Qhuinn_. Moneypenny is too drunk to hear the whispered secret in a very dark 10 pm MI6.

 

He stumbles into the hallway, there is no light except that far off glow that he knows is Q's laptop battery in the bedroom. He follows that little green dot on the floor, slowly, trying not to trip over and break his neck. The bedroom door arrives after aeons, Bond is sure that he hasn't taken that much care even on one of his more difficult missions. But the light bouncing off a resolute face fixed on the screen is worth it, Q's eyes are on the verge of blinking but they don't and Bond smirks, shrugging his clothes and sitting next to his lanky lover, his collar bones look grey in the blue light of the laptop and for a second, Bond can actually watch himself reaching out with his lips, latching on to the clavicle and rolling the paper skin between his teeth, the ripping sounds barely audible to anyone except him. The body under him shudders but takes no account of him whatsoever, fingers dashing over the keyboard, unwavering and aloof, tremor absent, conspicuously.

 

"Oh, so, it's a game," he wonders as Q stifles an impatient sound as he pulls back. Very well then. He spreads his legs in front of him, snaking his hand around Q's waist who seems confused for a while, before he tightens his hold on the laptop and is gently placed between Bond's legs, his device accompanying him. He is weightless, waiflike and yet, as Bond arranges them both, he wonders about what drew him in. And then the sound of the tapping is almost deafening like Q's fingers are shouting for dominance in the dark room and realisation dawn on Bond like the sound of chain blasts. It's him, it's that thing creaking audibly under that wild tangle of curls that has saved him more than he'd care to admit. It's that little thing thudding, the rhythm of which Bond has committed to memory from countless nights they have spent in each other's arms, like those corny lovers they so make fun of. He wraps his arms around the slender waist, he could probably fit two Qs there, but then, would he? And are there two Qs? His quartermaster makes a genuine pshaw sound and his fingers hover inches above the keyboard, now somewhat engrossed in his work. Bond lines them together, his chest to the mottled back and buries his face in the hair that smell of mint and strangely, herbal tea.

 

If Bond were true to himself, he missed this, not that he is. He'll never admit it out loud, mainly because he won't know what to say. It's a weird kind of missing, like people who've never experienced snowfall walk around in winters, snuggled inside cyan scarves and feeling drying grey leaves crunch under their boots. Like kids who love reading would sit at night under the covers, a torch in their hand and a book on their lap, the pirate from the pages leaping behind their garish grins. It's this weird chill that doesn't settle down, like the need to write when you have a block, like unconscious rhyming of free verse, like reading a hundred pages and not realising the time, like the sudden craving for warm coffee cakes and ginger tea swirling under a lemon stick. It's the little dust that carbon paper leaves behind, the one you have rubbed onto your cheek, felt between your thumb and forefinger a million times before you got too old for that stuff and started wiping it on curtains and walls. It's the never ending urge to scratch the back of a mirror. It's an itch of sorts. It's probably home. Yes, Q is home, much more home than anyone has ever been or anyone will ever be.

 

His hand deftly dives inside the cotton pyjamas, gliding in effortlessly against the concave belly, tracing the line of sparse hair down the abdomen. Q isn't wearing any pants, Bond realises. "Oh, you bastard," he groans as the semi hard member scalds his palm and Q does groan this time, his voice soft as always, softer perhaps or maybe Bond is getting sentimental about the kid. Q turns his face, a ghost of a smile on his lips as it is Bond's turn to moan.

 

"You grew a beard, I almost had a stroke in MI6," his voice is rough and he kisses his cheek, loving the scratch of the stubble. It suits Q, really suits him.The dark hair is rough and almost as wild as his head, it’s so very Q that it’s befitting. And the hair above his lip is imperceptible, like day old stubble and Bond aches to feel it against his upper lip when he captures Q’s mouth and swallows all his moans and sighs.  
"And how many people can claim to have done that?," Q's face is back to the screen, fingers tapping away out of sheer habit, " _James_ ," he adds, making the name sound more sinful that anyone ever could, it's almost as if he'd licked James' name out of his own mouth and added about seven after syllables in moans.

 

Bond licks his neck in answer, hands gently cradling his balls as he rolls them in his palms, squeezing them with frustrating patience as his other hand drives up Q's shirt to play with his nipple. The left one's the weak one, a crack in Q's endless resolve, the hardened nub that gets rubbed under his thumb and Q gets fully erect against Bond's other hand. Q is the easiest thing Bond has ever played and the most difficult it has been to learn. The seductions of his quartermaster are like playing the piano, lovingly, gentle touches and breathy licks, marking that glorious neck with bites and kisses. And the love making is bloody saxophone, musical grunts and moans stretching as far as the arch of Q's back under Bond's tanned body.

 

His hand travels up, a faint thought of his own aching need shelved away somewhere at the back of his mind, obliterated by the length in his palm, Q's laptop is shut and pushed away, safe from damage and James celebrates his victory by biting him on his jaw, stubble grazing his tongue as he sucks on it. Q is all words of jazz, fingers digging painfully into James' thighs as he pushed into his hand. It doesn't last long but god, does it end gloriously with a bite on Q's ear with the words Qhuinn singing in hushed cream tones. He slumps back on a strong chest and closes his eyes, faintly aware of James cleaning them up but not quite. His pyjamas are ruined and he doesn't help one bit as they are yanked down his lower half after much struggle and balled at the bottom of the bed.

 

"I sexed you into a coma, did I?" Bond kisses the side of his temple, drinking in all of a very blissful Q who rolls his eyes, even though they are closed, heavens know how he manages to do that.  
"Wouldn't it be prudent to save those comments till your own needs are met. I could still back off, you know, I'm pretty tired and everything." He doesn't need to smirk to actually smirk, gosh the boy is a bastard.  
"Don't quite care right now," Bond wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, nose back in his hair where it belongs.  
"Well, it's no fun if you respond like that!" But the mock indignation is lost as Q smiles and lets himself be cuddled. Bond is a cuddle octopus and that was the biggest surprise this relationship has managed to startle Q from (and that really does say something).  
"I love you, I think," Bond mumbles, like it's a shameful secret about the Queen and the country torn out of his lips, his face is still hidden in the back of Q's head but his arms stiffen around his torso and Q covers them with his own, interlacing their fingers.

 

And later that night, Q tells James just how much he loves him, with his mouth, his tongue and his teeth; against the walls, in the bathtub and of course, on the bed because Bond is such a traditionalist. If Bond remembers Q whispering the words back at him and then mumbling something about how Vivaldi is the best thing to happen to the world, he doesn’t mention it (and orgasm hits him after two seconds). If Q pretends that Bond is simply critisising _Four Seasons_ to annoy him (because he has an old record of the same in the box under his bed), he chooses to ignore it. All in all, it is a perfect night, the only one in many imperfect ones to come that would be far more beautiful than this one, but never quite like it. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for drandmrsjohnwatson|tumblr. 
> 
> I pronounce 'Qhuinn' as 'Kh-win' or "K-whin'
> 
> If you find any errors or typos, please let me know. I hope you like it :)


End file.
